In Bidness!

Well, Stuff Enterprises, LLC, is off and running, and earning a buck. It's not any time soon on the Forbes 100 list, but I'm paying the rent...so far. I don't know that there is a businessperson anywhere who can truly say he's done it all himself, because when it comes to all the crap involved in setting up a business legally, a businessperson would just give up and hold a cup on a street corner for a daily meal.

My savior has been Chris, the accountant-cum-HR-cum-taxes whiz at my former employer. She has helped me cross the I's and dot the T's and had me sign the forms that the state and Fed need in order to properly get their claws on my earnings.

It was on her advice that I shifted my personal status from independent contractor to employee. Of Stuff Enterprises, LLC. The company I own. So, yes, I am the owner and president of the company. And I am the sole employee of the company! The reason behind this setup is to protect myself from any potential lawsuits that may arise as a result of my operation of the taxi. Should that happen, the company is the legal target, and any damages or seizure of assets is exacted upon the company, and not me, personally. As an independent contractor leasing the taxi from my company, I would still be individually liable in the event of any legal action. So I exercised my Employer Identification Number and became a job creator! Though, admittedly, the hiring process involved an unfair amount of favoritism....

As a tax deadline loomed in October, Chris called me in to finalize and sign some paperwork. And she said to bring my checkbook...which sounded ominous.

I arrived, and she explained a few things, and gave me some forms to sign, among them an IRS form authorizing the service to withdraw a fixed amount monthly as payroll tax, based on a salary that I'm paying myself.

I'M PAYING MYSELF A SALARY!

I asked her if this IRS fixed amount was the amount for which I needed to write the check, and she said that it was not, and that it was going to be withdrawn electronically from my business checking account.

She also advised me to consider changing my company from a Limited Liability Company to an S Corporation — which I did not know I was eligible to do — in an effort to save a little on taxes annually. We're going to wait on that decision until the new year.

Then she presented me with another form, and pointed to the amount on that sheet as the amount I needed to write on the check — an amount which, for this month, anyway, was anything but ominous.

"This form is the Unemployment Insurance form. As an employer, you have to provide this for your employees. As an employer, should you close the doors on Stuff Enterprises and go out of business, as an employee you can collect unemployment."

The spoon in her coffee cup rattled when my chin hit the desk. In the freaky world of entrepreneurial endeavor, I am no longer unemployed. And while I am self-employed, I am no longer self-employed.

My next question for Chris is to wonder if Stuff Enterprises, LLC, can have a summer work slowdown and subsequent layoff for, say, a month or two....

I also want to remove the name "Stuff Enterprises" from the taxi business, as I also operate — in principle, anyway — a video production company. I want Stuff Enterprises to be the parent company of the others, so I need a new name for the taxi operation. My favorite, because it actually sounds like my family name — Gasbarro — is "Casbah Row Transport Company," though I fear it may mislead one to think I'm Algerian.

Of course, I could call it "Casbah Row Airport Passengery," and go by "CRAP" for short.

OR, I could take suggestions. From you. Serious ideas accepted, too!

Baby Step or Giant Leap? (OR... Yup, This Is What I'm Doing)

Above is a photo taken today of me with my taxi. Take careful note of the prior sentence. Focus specifically on the phrase "me with my taxi." My taxi. My taxi.

In an effort to reduce day-to-day expenses and increase my daily headaches, I decided to eliminate the middleman (one of them, anyway, as I'm learning) and stop paying him a lease, and have bought my own taxi.

Yes, I wrote that correctly. Bought.

Shortly after I was laid off from my salaried job I formed a limited liability company, Stuff Enterprises, as a way to protect myself from possible litigation that might arise from operating as a freelance video production god (litigation that might arise simply from use of the term "video production god," frinstance), but since no real work came from that, Stuff Enterprises, LLC, was more of a limp, lackluster company than anything else. As the idea to own a taxi came along primarily as a way to take more of the money I get from the passengers and keep it in my pocket, ownership revealed itself to me also as an avenue to greater flexibility to do the things I want to do when the opportunity arises to do them, as well as the freedom to relax just a little and not have to work so freakin hard to put a decent meal in front of me.

And so, Stuff Enterprises, LLC, is now in the transportation business. Does this make me a tycoon?





°

Strange Days Indeed

Some people have noticed that I don't blog much about the taxi job any more. It's not that I don't care to, but more that the customer stories that stood out began not to stand out so much after six or eight or twelve months. Not to mention my heavy involvement in theatrical endeavors, which took their toll on my time to write.

But some interesting things happened over a couple of days last week that I want to share. Put your tissues away; it's nothing like that.

No, wait. I make no guarantee against boredom; you might want to keep them handy.

On Wednesday morning I met with my friends for our weekly get-together that we call "Midwest Media Now!", after which I ran to the taxi office to pick up my check, so my morning was cut short from the taxi. When I got back on the road, I was a little more eager and willing to chase fares that were a little out of my usual range. As soon as I had gotten into my car at the office, I saw on the dispatch computer screen a fare sitting open in Schaumburg. From the office that's just too far away for me to chase, even on this day, so I let it be. But as I got closer to Schaumburg, the fare remained open and unclaimed. When I was about 15 minutes away, I claimed it and was on my way.

As it turned out, it was an elderly woman I had picked up several times before, usually at a Wal-Mart store south of her home, but today she was at the Target store on the corner of Meacham Road and Higgins Road on the east side of Schaumburg.

When I arrived at the store, she politely griped about how long she had waited, but I think she recognized me, so she accepted my apologies and stated her awareness that it wasn't my fault. So I dropped her off at her home, helped her with her bags, and got back in the taxi to book back in on the computer.

As I punched the buttons to tell the dispatch system that I was done with my ride and ready for the next one, I noticed that there was now a fare open in the very zone I was in, so I knew that, unless someone else grabbed it before I could punch the buttons, I would get the fare.

I got it. The pickup? At the Target on the west side of Schaumburg, at the corner of Schaumburg Road and Barrington Road! HAH! Another Target store pickup!

I arrived about 15 minutes later and drove the woman to her home in Streamwood, which wraps around the west and south borders of Schaumburg. She took me west and a little bit north. When I dropped her off and booked back in, I was offered another fare, this time in Hoffman Estates, in a zone that I know is a little further west and north of where I was at that moment. I accepted the fare: Target store, corner of Higgins Road and Illinois route 59!

Three fares in a row, each pick-up at a different Target store, the last of which brought me to just 5 blocks from my home, where I paused for lunch!


Princess
Anyone who has ever read every single one of my blog posts ... [crickets] ... may remember one of my passengers, Ricky, who was the source of an interesting ride. Well, his sister, Susie, factored in another interesting coincidence Thursday evening.

On Thursday mornings I meet with my friend Sean as we try to develop several ideas for short films or web series, and last Thursday was no different. But I also had to take the taxi in for an oil change and to get the air conditioning system recharged, which took about an hour and a half longer than the hour they told me it would take! So, with my entire morning shot to hell, I knew I had to work into the late evening in order to have a chance to make up the time and money.

Around 6:00 in the evening I had a fare which brought me into downtown Arlington Heights, so after I dropped off, I parked at the nearby Metra train station because I knew there would be an outbound from the city coming in about 15 minutes. When I arrived at the train station I was the third taxicab in the line at the curb, and the second in the electronic line behind one of my 303 Taxi colleagues. My chances of getting a passenger here were slim.

After a few minutes I saw a fare open up in zone 279 — which almost always means Woodfield Mall — in Schaumburg. At 6:00pm, due to traffic, that's a 20-minute drive from Arlington Heights. Normally I wouldn't chase this, but almost desperate to at least break even, I seriously considered it. Then I saw her: Susie, the gypsy sister of Ricky, approached the taxi line from the rear. She's no longer petite, as she has gained a considerable amount of weight since the last time I saw her, but I was certain it was her. I feared she would come straight to my taxi, for two reasons: I didn't want to have to deal with passing her to the front taxi, as the next passenger rightly belongs to him; and I really didn't want to take her, because her home is only about a mile away from the train station, a chump change ride during which, as was her usual, she would immediately get on her phone and start arguing with her husband.

To my relief, she walked past me, but we made eye contact. I waved. She went to the front taxi, my 303 colleague, who turned her away. Whether he really had a pre-arranged passenger coming on the next train or not, I'm sure that's what he told her. So Susie moved to the taxi behind him, owned by a friendly, affable Nigerian young man. Assuming that the taxi at the front of the line indeed had a prearranged passenger, I figured there would be slim chance that a second passenger from the train would seek a taxi. I asked for — and received — the fare at Woodfield Mall.

About ¼ of the way to the mall I noticed the Nigerian's taxi behind me. He pulled up next to me at a stop light. I tried to look into his rear seat area, but his tinted windows prevented me from seeing anyone there. Did he take Susie? Did I unwittingly abandon her?

The light changed and I pulled away, ahead of the Nigerian. I started to wonder if maybe my passenger waiting for me at Woodfield Mall had, as some passengers do, called two taxi companies to increase her chances of a taxi actually showing up, and taking the first one to arrive and leaving the second guy sucking wind when he gets there. Did the Nigerian get that order? I turned onto Golf Road. The Nigerian, behind me, turned as well. I reasoned that, had he same fare or not, I had to assume he did. It was a race!

True to form, I chose the wrong lane of traffic and got stuck behind some slow movers, and the Nigerian pulled past me. Ahead of me, he ducked back into my lane and signaled a left turn into the mall parking lot! I found a break in the lane to my right, zipped out from behind the slow cars in front of me, and sped to catch the Nigerian, who turned just in front of a line of oncoming cars, leaving me waiting for them to clear.

On the mall property, I once again caught up to him in a line of cars, but I made another crucial mistake. In order to get to the pickup point, outside the "fountain" entrance to Macy's, I needed to make a right turn onto the mall's Perimeter Road. I was in the left lane. The Nigerian was in the right, at the head of a long line of cars. DAMN HIM! He pulled away in the proper direction. I was forced to turn left and then quickly right into the parking lanes, and then double back across to get to the access lane to the Macy's entrance. And there sat the Nigerian, blocking my access to the pick-up/drop-off lane. And then his driver's side rear door opened up, and out came Susie!

How odd that she was headed not home, but to the very spot that my order wanted to be picked up! I waved meekly at her when she again made eye contact with me as she rounded the Nigerian's taxi to the rear and headed to the Macy's entrance, where my fare was waiting faithfully for me to take her to her home.

Just after 9:00 I was still out. The evening had been stingy, and I was just a few dollars under the break-even point for my Thursday. I was in southwest Schaumburg and had just decided to throw in the towel. I had started to pack up my laptop when two fares opened up in zone 279. At that hour the distance to the mall was not an issue, and meant about a 15-minute drive (Schaumburg is quite a sprawling suburb!). On the way there, the other zone 279 fare disappeared from the computer screen, claimed by a driver, and within five minutes of that, another open fare in zone 279 popped up.

I arrived at The Cheesecake Factory as requested by the passenger, but after the five minutes required minimum wait, no passenger had shown up. I requested a "no show" with the dispatcher and waited, nervously eyeing the zone 279 fare that was still open. If no one grabbed it while I waited, I would still get a fare out of this trip to the mall!

The "no show" was granted, and I quickly booked back in to the system. I was instantly offered the fare in 279: Woodfield Mall, Entrance near Stir Crazy restaurant. Susie. HAH! What are the odds?

I went around to Stir Crazy and within a few minutes she was in my taxi and immediately on her phone, arguing with her husband.

Sometimes life is indeed truly strange.



°

Italic

When you boil it all down, I guess I’m a pretty poor excuse for an Italian. I’m only half-Italian, really, as my mother was a Euro-mutt: half German, and the other half English and Irish. The ethnicity we most identified with as a family was Italian, though, and as I look at and listen to the other Italian “kids” I know, my life was comparatively devoid of Italian customs and traditions.

I think I know the reason for this. When my father’s parents came over from Italy — on their respective boats, and about fifteen years apart by my best guess — Italians were the “dirty” immigrants washing ashore in waves and glutting the job lines, relegated to the filthiest, least glamorous, lowest-paying jobs to be had, just so they could feed their families and establish a foothold in their new world.

And I think that sensitivity was bred into my father and his siblings, because to a person, none of my uncles or my aunt seemed to be very “Italian.” I believe they each — either by instruction, or by their own initiative — abandoned their Italian identities and clung to everything “American” that they could grab. They spoke English to each other, though they all could speak in their parents’ Abruzzese dialect. They cast off most of the old customs and traditions. They adopted the American versions of their Italian names — well... all except for Uncle Guido — Maria was Mary; Giovanni was John; Francesco was Frank; there was the stalwart Guido; Remo was Ray; Giuseppe was Joe, though everyone has called him Chooch forever. My father is the mystery. The handwritten name on his birth certificate is indecipherable. It’s either Vincurzio or Vincurzino, but certainly not Vincenzo, though he was James Vincent — Jimmy to his friends and family — all his life.

Throughout my life, our “Italian-ness” was more of a distant background than a foundation. Just about the only things Italian that my family honored was that we were all baptized and raised Roman Catholic, and Italian food. At the holidays. Only. Made by my non-Italian mother!

Most of the other Italian customs and traditions I knew of were what I heard from other Italian kids at school and around the neighborhood, the right-off-the-boat (plane, really, I guess) Italian family that lived across the street and a few doors down from us and Italians whose homes I visited with my father when he dragged me along on his handyman or traveling barber errands.

There was always a smell in these homes, an aroma not of cooking, but yet the suggestion of food. I never smelled this aroma in my own home, but it seemed so pervasive to me in these other Italian homes that I identified it as the “Italian smell.”

I smelled it again today when I picked up an elderly couple in my taxi. The gentleman apparently wasn’t feeling too well, and they were on their way to the emergency room at the local hospital. The moment their garage door opened (yes, the garage), that aroma reached my nose before the sound of the woman’s voice reached my ears, and even had I not already seen their name on the dispatch order, I could have told you their ethnicity.

That aroma — which now as an adult I can identify — is anise. The couple’s name? Mattiuzzi.

With that first breath, I was once again briefly in every Italian home I have ever visited since I was a kid.

But not my own.



°

Karmagical

Lately I have been working straight days. Well, "day" is a relative term, as I still start at 3:30 a.m. — in darkness — and quit around 6:00 p.m. — in darkness. I still work just about every day, so, lately, on Saturdays I "sleep in" until 5:00 a.m. or so, and plan usually to work until 5:00 or 6:00 p.m.

It was a pretty sleepy Saturday morning — yesterday — as I headed out to Arlington Heights, my usual cruising grounds in the taxi. It was seven o'clock. I had just started; the cabin of the car was still cold. A zone number popped up on the dispatch computer screen indicating an open fare. It was still a good ten minutes away from me, so I left it alone, but it stayed up there. Indeed, a sleepy morning...no other taxis out yet, or they all worked overnight. So I claimed the fare.

It was just an address, with the message "church, PU main entrance." When I arrived it became clear that the church was also a part-time homeless shelter, which, I learned moments later, provides a hot evening meal, a warm place to sleep and a simple breakfast to those it shelters from the cold.

I had picked up the guy about six to eight weeks before from another church in the area. He looks to be about mid-forties to mid-fifties — the gruff, weathered skin of his face makes it difficult to judge — white, with longish, straggly hair and a light, scruffy beard, and somewhat portly, though it could just be layer upon layer of clothing to keep him warm. What had struck me then was that he wore on his feet a pair of open shoes — open like sandals, but in a shoe shape with a mouth that snugged around his ankles — over white socks. He wore the same shoes Saturday. He loaded a couple of plastic shopping bags into the trunk of my taxi, along with his backpack. He directed me to the Mt. Prospect train station, and along the way I asked him if the shelter fed him. He spoke appreciatively of the hot meal they provided the night before. I asked him about breakfast, and he said that sometimes they provide a hot meal, but it's usually bagels and pastries and coffee and juice. So I made up my mind.

When we arrived at the train station he reached into his pocket to pay the $6.00 fare. I turned to him and said, "Keep it."

Before I could say more, he looked at me with a startled expression. "Huh?"

"Keep it," I said. "Make sure you get something to eat today."

He was very grateful, repeating several times, "Thank you very much!" As he began securing his plastic bags to his bicycle, which he had left locked up at the train station, he said to me, "Thank you very much! Have a good day!"

It seemed an odd thing to say to me as, I thought, there's little that could happen to me that would make the coming day worse than the one coming to you, sir, as you tool around on your bicycle looking for places to stay warm — and alive. The thought came out of my mouth as, "You have a good day!"

And I went on about my business.

It was very quiet the rest of the morning, but then things started to pick up around eleven o'clock. By one o'clock in the afternoon it was pretty much non-stop, with very little time to nap, or play on Facebook at the newly-discovered (by me) WiFi hotspot from the Holiday Inn Express across Arlington Heights Road from one of our posts.

By four o'clock, I was contemplating calling it a day, as, for a Saturday day shift I hadn't done too badly. But I chastised myself for being lazy, and decided to stick it out for at least the twelve hours I planned to work.

A couple of fares later it was around six o'clock in the evening. Usually, when I set a quitting time, I'll start about an hour before that time, working my way west, toward my gas station of choice, near my home, with the dispatch computer still available to receive fares. I call it "trolling," as though I'm a fishing boat moving while dragging a line in the water for whatever I can catch. At 6:15, when I was about five minutes from the gas station (where I would have then booked out of the dispatch system), I received a fare to pick up not five minutes from my location, but to the south.

I picked up a guy who looked to be in his fifties, but with long hair and a kind of stoner look about him — and he reeked of reefer smoke. He had me take him to a 7-Eleven store about a mile and a half from his house where he picked up a couple bottles of wine, and then had me take him back home.

On the way back to his house I saw on the dispatch computer a fare open up in the zone where I live. I figured it was probably a local, and that would be just fine. I was ready to go home. As we approached the guy's home I notified via the dispatch computer that I was just about to clear a fare, and that I would like to take that open fare.

As soon as I dropped the stoner dude off and booked back in to the dispatch system, my computer sounded with the fare I had requested, and I accepted it. But it was not a local. It was to take 4 people from Hoffman Estates to Northbrook! Twenty-two miles!

It was a Polish family heading to some party — probably a wedding reception — and they were very nice. Not great tippers, but, what the hell! The fare came out to $62.20! The dad paid with a credit card, and told me to make the total out to $65, but I goofed on the math and the card was run for $66. I pointed out my mistake and offered to give him a dollar back out of my pocket, but he said, "No. Iss okay!" and signed the slip. My day went from a respectable gross of $168 to a quite admirable $234!

It didn't occur to me until I was all the way back home and getting gas that I had started the day by giving away a paltry six dollars to a guy I figured needed to keep it in his pocket way more than I needed to get it into mine. I had taken the last fare on a whim because it was close to home; I was otherwise just headed home.

In telling others about this, I jokingly mentioned Karma, but I don't really believe in that. Another quoted scripture to me in an attempt to explain it, but if you've read here long enough, you know I don't believe that. I could use the $6 charity/$66 fare - 666 correlation to undo her explanation — and perhaps frighten her, but I don't believe that either!

It's just a coincidence, and the rare occurrence of a Good Day for Tony!



°

Kid Sniffles and the Unlucky Stiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

The snow came down in piles Thursday, and the cabbing was a non-stop affair. I had planned to work only until noon, but the longer I stayed logged onto the dispatch computer, the more fares came my way.

I picked up one guy at his home, and took him to his job at a hospital in Hoffman Estates. As he paid me, a man looking to be around age 30 made eye contact with me and asked, “Are you here for me?”

I shook my head. “Did you call for a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“This company?”

“I think so,” he said. “The receptionist at the E.R. called for me.”

If he had ordered from this company, I was reluctant to take him, as that would be stealing a fare from one of my company “brothers.” So I called our dispatcher, who checked for an order from that particular hospital and found none.

“Hop in,” I said to my new next fare, slightly dismayed since I was within a mile of my home and had planned to knock off for the day after the guy I dropped off at the hospital, though happy to put a few more dollars into my pocket. “Where to?”

“North Barrington.”

BONUS! That’s about a 12 mile trip across a couple different towns, so I could charge a higher rate!

He told me his address and we got underway, and began light conversation. He told me his name was Randy, and that he had spent two nights in the hospital due to what he said the doctors called alcohol poisoning, which Randy said was “Bullshit.”

With the weather falling down all around us and the traffic responding as traffic does around here, it took us nearly a half-hour to get to Miller Road, where he said he lived. Along the way Randy mentioned that so much snow had fallen, with more to come, but he hadn’t hired anyone to plow his driveway. When we finally turned on to Miller Road, Randy pointed to a street sign about 2 blocks ahead and said, “Turn in there.”

I nodded.

Then he blurted, “No, wait! It’s this one!” indicating the street which we had just passed.

I turned around in the gate area of a gated community, and he said, “I’m trying to sell my house. This economy is a bitch.” Then he warned me, “Don’t pull in the driveway or you might get stuck.”

I pulled up to his house, where the virgin snow in the driveway had been violated by one vehicle. The meter read $32.00

“Hey,” he said, “my keys and wallet are on top of my dresser in my bedroom. I’ll run in and get it, and I’ll be right back.”

I’ve done this several times over the three months that I’ve been driving a taxi. Pickups from hospital emergency rooms usually don’t have any cash or their credit cards on them, and I have no choice but to trust them to get their stuff and come back. And they usually do, no worries.

He trotted toward the house, but then, instead of going to the front door, he slipped around the side of the house. Three minutes later I started to get the feeling something was wrong. Another two minutes later and I was pretty sure.

“This guy stiffed me.”

I attempted to pull into the driveway against “Randy’s” warning, but I indeed almost got stuck in the six to eight inches of fresh snow. It struck me odd — if this guy was indeed not coming back — that he would have even that level of compassion. I aborted that attempt and instead drove down the narrow lane to a home where the driveway had been cleared of the deep snow, and I turned around there.

I returned to the house and again sat in front, thinking for a moment that maybe I was being a little hasty. But I looked at the place, and at the “For Sale” sign protruding from the snow, and then I recalled the address he had told me at the beginning of the trip: 611 Miller Road, North Barrington. This house wasn’t on Miller Road, but rather a street that intersects with Miller.

Son of a bitch.

I got out of the car and walked toward the house, tracing his footsteps around the side, ducking under the boughs of a snow-laden pine tree, the needles of which shed some of their burdensome flakes down the back of my jacket collar and onto my bare neck. Around to the back of the house I saw “Randy’s” footprints in the snow leading away from the house and across a field behind the house.

Bastard.

I returned to the car and entered 611 Miller Road into my GPS unit. My hope was that he hadn’t decided to stiff me until he saw how much the ride was going to cost, or until I let him leave the car with the trust that he would return, and that he assumed I wouldn’t remember his address. The GPS indicated that the address was very close, and estimated it would take me 17 seconds to get there!

I drove to the location as indicated by the GPS. The house was at the end of a line of houses, their mailboxes standing at the side of the road with their addresses affixed to the west sides of the boxes. Six-twenty-one, 615 and... At the house on the eastern end of the line of houses, the mailbox was missing from the steel signpost that stood beside the road. Was this 611?

The driveway there had indeed been plowed, so I pulled in and got out of the car. The front walk and porch had not been cleared. I walked around to the back of the house where I saw no cars (and three closed garage doors), and several thoughts occurred to me in the moment: he may have planned this from the start, and 611 may have been a bogus address. If it was, and I went pounding on the door at this place, and the innocent dweller was confronted by an irked cab driver, it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience for either of us. If it was the correct address, and “Randy” came to the door at all, it could get ugly, or even deadly. To me.

Asshole.

I returned to the cab and looked up the number to the local police. Fifteen minutes later, waiting at the same gate area where I had turned around earlier, a sheriff’s deputy arrived to take my statement. He said I would receive a call if they found the guy, or if they had any further questions.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

On another hospital emergency room pick-up I retrieved a father and son from the hospital in Arlington Heights. The father, from Argentina, spoke English with a heavy accent, which was at times difficult to decipher. Conversation, therefore, was limited. And that turned out to be very unfortunate. For me.

Though I am pretty nosy by nature, taxi company rules are explicit for drivers waving the company flag about asking personal questions. It’s none of your business. Don’t ask.

It became apparent that it was the kid, about ten years of age, who was the reason for the trip to the E.R., as I picked them up around 4:30 am, when I overheard him say to his father, “My throat still itches,” in perfect American kid English.

With snow still falling and the roads a mess, the going was slow on the approximately seven-mile trip.

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

[sniff!] [sniff!]

Whatever the kid had was running out of his nose.

A customer a few weeks ago — a family, actually — inadvertently left a box of facial tissue on the rear shelf above the back seat in my car. I thought it an adequate addition to the amenities I offer my customers, which consist mainly of... well... that box of facial tissues. Anyway, I said to the father, “There’s a box of tissues behind you, if he needs some.”

“Ten cue!” he said, and I heard him turn and take a tissue from the box. He said something to the kid, who, so it sounded, refused!

[sniff!] [sniff!]

At least one per minute, it seemed, sometimes coming in flurries of three or more in a matter of seconds.

[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]

After a few minutes, “Would you care to listen to the radio?” I asked the father.

“No. Ees okay. Ten cue.”

[sniff!] [sniff!]

[sniff!]

It became absurd. Absurd situations tend to give me the giggles. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing.

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

I looked at the time display on the dispatch computer screen: 4:52.

[sniff!] One. I started counting.

[sniff!] [sniff!] Two. Three.

The drive dragged on through the fairly deserted streets upon which the snow fell so hard and fast that the village plows could not keep up to clear them.

[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]

Finally, the adult in the back seat instructed me to turn into a cul-de-sac where he pointed out his house.

[sniff!]

He handed me his credit card.

[sniff!] [sniff!]

I filled out the information [sniff!] and handed the slip for him to sign. [sniff!]

I swiped his card through the slot in the car’s computer and waited for the authorization number. [sniff!] [sniff!]

[sniff!]

“Here you are!” I turned in my seat and handed back his receipt and his credit card.

The man and his boy exited my taxi and entered the flaky white fray outside. The computer’s clock read 5:02. Exactly ten minutes. That was easily only 1/3 of the entire duration of the ride!!

I had counted sixty sniffs! I don’t know how the kid didn’t pass out from hyperventilating!

Somehow I have the feeling that, were the adult in the back seat the boy’s mother, and after his refusal to use a tissue, she would have forcefully wrapped an arm around his head, jammed a tissue in his face and yelled, “BLOW!”

Of course, my fantasies do tend toward the weird....



°

A Bit of a Problem

I recently had another repeat customer of note. I’ve had several repeat customers, but few affect me on our first meeting as this woman did. And I don’t mean it as a good thing.

Very early in this stint driving a cab, I received a late night call to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Upon arrival I went in to the ER and announced that I was the taxi driver called in. One of the ER staff called out the woman’s name — for our purposes, Lana — and my attention was diverted to the slightly mannish figure I had passed on my way in (I originally thought she was a college-aged boy!), huddled in a chair, apparently sleeping, and wrapped in a hospital blanket. She got up without a word and staggered to the taxi, where she crawled into the back seat and lay down.

I got behind the wheel and asked, “Where to?”

Lana labored to tell me her address, which I entered into my GPS unit.

Several times throughout the 10-minute trip, Lana moaned or grunted. Her manner and apparent incoherence had all the earmarks of someone coming down from alcohol intoxication. And, from the looks and sounds of it, this woman had been several stations beyond hammered. I wasn’t certain, of course, but it was a strong hunch. So strong, that I feared with every moan or grunt that she would spew her stomach contents all over the inside of my cab. I also feared that she would be unconscious by the time I got her home, and that I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my cab.

We neared the point to which the GPS was directing me, and she sat up, and blurted, “Here. This is good.”

I looked around. We were at an intersection between a couple apartment complexes and some sort of commercial buildings. Lana whipped out a credit card.

While I filled out the slip, Lana lay back down in the seat. She signed with an unintelligible scribble, and I said “Thanks.”

Lana opened the rear seat door and leaned out. She grunted in what sounded like apprehension. “Can you help me?”

“Sure,” I said, and got out and went around to help her. She was doubled over and very unsteady on her feet, and I had no confidence she would make it to her home — wherever it was. “Where are you going?”

She pointed to a building that was at least 100 yards away, and atop a hill. She grunted and a word came out. “There.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you make it?”

“Help me.” It sounded more like a general plea than a specific request.

“Okay, let’s go.” I offered my arm.

Lana remained doubled over as we walked. Though it was late September, the night air was quite crisp and chilly, and Lana wore nothing more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of athletic shoes. Despite the concrete stair path about fifty yards away that led to her building’s door, Lana made a bee-line for the door up the grassy hill. We had made it about one-third of the way up when she stumbled and stopped.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Hold me.” Again, it sounded like it came from deep within her soul.

On her right side, I gripped her right wrist with my right hand and pulled, and I placed my left hand on her back and pushed.

At the door to her building I waited as she fumbled for her keys, got them in the door, and got it open. Without looking at me, she muttered, “Thank you,” and shuffled into the depths of her existence.

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Two months later I received an order to pick up on the same street. When I arrived I realized the address was the same building where I had dropped off Lana that bizarre, chilly night. And sure enough, when the door opened at the top of the hill, Lana came bounding down the stairs. Looking to be around 40, with sandy blond, short-cropped hair, she was a 180-degree turn from the last time I had seen her. Aside from a somewhat vacant, lost look in her eyes, one would never suspect at her appearance that she had any dirty secrets.

She got in the back seat and dictated directions to a destination I did not know. Only a minute or two into the ride she spoke. “Have you ever picked me up before?”

Attempting to sound as neutral as possible, I answered, “Yes. I picked you up at the emergency room one night, and brought you home.”

“Yeah. I thought you looked familiar. I’d remember a handsome guy like you.”

Right. I’m sure you do, I thought.

“You helped me get to the door. I appreciate that.”

Oops!

Her directions brought us to the door of a liquor store literally only about a mile from her apartment.

“Right here,” she said. And then, almost sheepishly, “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She paused. Did she seek comment or acknowledgment? “I’ll be just a minute, and then you can take me right back home.”

She went in to the liquor store, and, neutrality no longer needed, I shook my head.

She emerged from the store only two minutes later, empty-handed. She got in the car and said, “Okay. Take me home.”

She offered no explanation. I had an array of possible scenarios, from she’s battling demons and she won this round by resisting the desire for liquor to the liquor store clerk recognizes she has a problem, and refused to sell to her. But I’m sure it’s somewhere between those possibilities.

At the bottom of the concrete stair path she again offered her credit card as payment. It was a few minutes to fill out the slip and process the card. She spoke.

“Do you have a card or something? I need cabs every now and then.”

I handed her my card, provided by the taxi company, with my name and mobile number hand-written on the back. I told her that my schedule varies, and to try to call me at least an hour before she needs a ride, if possible, to determine if I’ll be available to pick her up.

Her credit card was approved. I handed back her card and her receipt. She opened the door and spun on the seat to get out.

“Thanks!” she said, raising my calling card in a gesture to me. Then she smiled. “You’re a cutie!” And she was gone.

In a split-second my mind visited the possibilities present in entertaining her interest. “HELL NO!” I shouted in the otherwise empty car.

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Just a few nights ago, as I was outside the door of a customer awaiting pick-up, my mobile phone rang.

“[Farrago]? This is--”

“Yes?” I spoke over the voice, missing her name.

She gave the address. “I need a ride.”

“Who is this?” I asked, though I was certain I recognized the voice, perhaps instinctively.

“Oh,” came the voice on the other end. She reacted as if she had been told she had the wrong number.

“I’m with another customer right now.”

“I need you.”

“I’m not available right now,” I said.

“How long will you be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where he wants me to take him. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done with him and see if you still need a cab.”

There came a couple of uncertain grunts from Lana, and she hung up.

The customer was a local ride, not too long, and as soon as I dropped him off I called Lana, her number saved in my mobile phone’s “Calls” list. There was no answer.

Just to be sure, I drove to Lana’s apartment building and tried to call her again, also banking on the possibility that she was waiting for me to arrive. There was still no answer, and she never came out.

It’s in our nature to recognize need in people and to want to help. Some problems are within our capacity to solve, or at least to offer possible solutions. Others are beyond our help. The taxi driver is often a confidante, sometimes a co-conspirator. There is no oath of secrecy or privacy, though it seems one is implied. Nor is there a Hippocratic oath to help those in need. The damning reality is recognizing when someone is desperately in need of help, and the chasm between ‘want’ and ‘can’ is impossible to bridge.



°

The Gypsy Prince

I knew long before I ever got behind the wheel of a taxi cab that cab drivers love — nay, prefer — long rides. They’re more money per minute.

One cool evening I sat on one of the posts in this quaint northwest suburb, and the dispatch computer in the car sounded the alarm that I had a fare. The passenger name was Susie, a name and address I had been called to only two evenings earlier.

I drove to the house and pulled into the driveway, but instead of the young Susie, out came a young man carrying a small armload of clothes. He got in, said, “Hello,” and told me where he wanted to go: “Clark & Division.”

I turned to face him, mildly incredulous. “Downtown?”

“Yes, sir.” Tee hee! He called me “sir.”

“I just want to make sure you know how much that’s going to be.” He was asking me to take him into the heart of Chicago, about 25 miles away.

“How much will it be?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I have to run the meter. It could be up to seventy-five dollars.”

“That’s fine,” he said, unblinking.

And so we went on our way.

I mentioned to him that two nights earlier I had picked up the woman Susie from the same address where I had picked him up.

“That’s my sister.” He leaned forward and offered his hand, which I took. “I’m Ricky.”

I had noticed a resemblance to his sister, not that I had gotten a great, long look at her. They bore the identical traits of an olive skin tone and strange, slightly bulging, blue-gray eyes. Where Susie is very petite, Ricky is considerably bigger, both in height and in girth.

Conversation continued, and soon he had lured me into talk about politics, a subject cab drivers from this company are instructed to avoid, even though he and I were on the same side of the political fence. I mentioned voting, and he responded that he can’t vote. I pressed him for the reason.

“I’m only sixteen.”

I had to turn around — briefly — to look at him. With his looks, demeanor, and voice, he presented himself as around 25 or so. But sixteen?

My apprehension was telegraphed by my stammering before my words could deliver the concern. “Are you going to be able to pay for this ride?”

“Oh, no worries. My mom will pay you when I get there.”

I don’t remember how we got onto the next subject, his family’s heritage, but I think I expressed my curiosity regarding his skin tone. Middle Eastern? Greek?

“We’re gypsies,” he clarified. “Have you ever seen the palm-reading places around these towns?”

“Yeah,” I lied. I’m certain I had caught a glimpse of one here or there, but I couldn’t say where one was off hand.

“My parents own those. My parents and my aunts and uncles.”

“Oh,” I nodded.

“They’re just big scams.”

I stifled a laugh. “Really?!”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s all bullshit. I mean, come on! We’re gypsies. It’s what we do.”

“So what exactly does that mean, ‘gypsy?’ I mean, I know gypsies are somewhat nomadic. What is your family’s heritage?”

“We’re gypsies. That’s it.”

“No, I mean...” What did I mean? “Do you have any relatives from ‘the old country?’”

“Yeah. My grandmother.”

“Does she speak the language of her heritage?”

“Yeah.”

“What language is that?”

“’Romanesh.’ It’s kind of a mix of many languages, just like gypsies are a mix of many cultures. We have no country of our own. Everybody hates us, even worse than Jews. We’re just a bunch of thieves.”

I thought I heard quotation marks, in his voice the voice of his critics. I feared I was touching on a sensitive subject and, perhaps, upsetting him or making him upset himself, so I tried to switch back to a safer subject — like politics — again!

It was a long ride — about 40 minutes — and a long conversation. The topic drifted here and there, but seemed to keep coming back to Ricky’s gypsy roots.

“It’s in my blood. I was scamming when I was six years old. I had a woman — the mother of a friend of mine — giving me money every day. I told her my parents were poor and couldn’t afford to give me lunch money. She gave me ten dollars every day for months. She even bought me clothes and school supplies!”

His tales started to seem rather tall, and I began to doubt whether they were exactly what he said they were, or if they were real at all. I felt my interest begin to wane as my disbelief grew, and my feedback ‘uh-hums’ and ‘uh-huhs’ started to feel forced. But he was on a roll, now, seeming to enjoy stringing me along on his tale of con artistry.

I continued to engage him in conversation, a passive spectator to the imagery he created across the air.

“...And the whole family, basically, works scams together.”

“Like what?” As if it was any of my business.

“Okay. When it all boils down, I’m a thief.”

I suddenly got a dim view of the immediate future. “Okay, now, you’re not instilling a whole lot of confidence that I’ll get paid for this ride!”

“Oh, no,” Ricky smiled. “I’m not that kind of thief. You’ll get paid. Don’t worry.”

He might as well have added, “Trust me.”

“Here’s what I do: basically I steal tons of shit, usually from stores like Best Buy; expensive shit, electronics, small packaging and all. Then we make bogus sales receipts for each one, and then we go to different stores — never the one where we stole the shit — and use the bogus sales receipts to return the merchandise for cash.”

It all sounded plausible, and like he indeed knew from experience what he was talking about. I got a slight chill that climbed up my spine with the thought of his reasons for telling me all this, and what possible consequence — should he be legit...as it were — his divulging it to me could have.

When he finished his confession I was speechless. What would I have said? “You’re a naughty boy! Stop that!”

We approached the corner of Clark and Division streets in Chicago, and he said, “When you turn onto Clark you’ll see a psychic storefront on the other side of the street. Just pull in front of it, and I’ll run in and get your money.”

I did as he asked, and when I stopped the meter it read $67.40.

He pointed a finger toward the storefront. “See that woman in the white top?”

I looked, and I saw her.

“I’m going to go in and get the money from her.” He opened the right side rear door. “Been a pleasure talking to you. I’ll be right back.” He stood erect and then paused. He bent again to poke his head in the doorway, a wry smile stretching his face. “Keep an eye on me now. I might rip you off!”

He gave voice to the exact sentiment I was hiding in my silence! I couldn’t suppress a nervous chuckle as I blurted, “You bet I will!”

He walked across the street and into the psychic’s lair. He spoke to the woman in the white top. He pointed out the window toward my taxi. She looked out at me. She didn’t appear to have been expecting to see him, and she appeared none too pleased that he asked her for money. Gypsy thief in the family business or not, he was still a teenage headache to his parents, sucking money out of their pores.

The woman in white stepped out of view. Then Ricky stepped out of view. For a minute or two. What’s my next move if they don’t come back? Do I cross the street? Do I brace for confrontation? Do I call the cops? I chuckled at myself and at the absurdity of the situation. The kid seemed so damn likable! But then, I guess that’s the way it’s played, the grease that makes the gears turn, that which makes the con man an artist.

Without much more waiting, Ricky emerged from the psychic’s shop and approached me.

“See? I told you I’d be back!” He handed me four 20-dollar bills. “Thanks again. Keep the change!” He spun back toward the store and disappeared inside.

I rather absently checked my pockets to make sure nothing was missing, and I made my way back to the northwest suburbs, thoughts of Ricky — and more questions about him than I had answers — running through my mind.

Just about every day I drive past the house where Ricky and Susie live, and each time I pass by I look at it — usually at night — and usually there’s a light on upstairs illuminating what is either an unfurnished room or a stairway foyer, and each time I wonder. What are you up to in there?



°

Behind the Wheel

A view of the back seat in a taxi cab

On Friday I completed my first full week working full-time as a cab driver. While I haven't met any truly interesting characters — yet — there have been some interesting people passing through nonetheless, brief visits, short conversations about a wide range of topics — or absolutely no conversation at all — and then the silence of an empty rear seat within the hum of the wheels rolling me toward the next fare.

It's unfare, I tell ya!
As I am still new to the job, I am at a distinct disadvantage to the other, more veteran drivers receiving dispatches from the same company. To keep the technical part brief, the company has divided our service area into zones that are marked off electronically by a radio-GPS system. The computer/radio in each car is constantly transmitting and receiving, and the central dispatch computer can inform the human dispatcher where any car is at any given time. If I'm in a zone where a customer lives who has called for a taxi, and if I have priority in that zone (no other cab arrived there before me), then the computer will automatically assign me the fare. If no cabs are in the zone where a customer needs a ride, the zone number goes up on the in-car computer screen, and any driver who wants that fare must press a request code and the number of the zone where the fare is waiting. When it's busy, the veteran drivers who know which zones are close enough to them to make it worth their while, and that of the customer, can enter the request into their computers very quickly, whereas I must still consult the book to see if the open fare is in a zone close enough for me to get to in a timely fashion. Quite often, before I have even grabbed the training book to find the town corresponding to the zone, the fare is snapped up by another driver.

It's the nature of the game in a pool full of sharks. What is more frustrating is that quite often these other drivers abandon the zones to the far west and northwest, and those fares will sit open for quite a long time. I have made some of my best money chasing those fares while the other drivers hold out for the longer rides to the airport.

The most frustrating, however, is chasing one of those fares a l o o o n g way, only to arrive at the customer's house and learn from his wife that he left "20 minutes ago... in another cab." GRRRR!


The cab driver diet
I have shared in these pages my efforts to lose some weight and get into shape. I had started in February, and through July I had managed to go from 210 lbs down to 190. That was five months and change, and I remained at the 190 lb. plateau through the rest of the summer.

In one week of working twelve-hour shifts I have dropped another five pounds. I have been acutely aware of how easy it is to eat poorly when there are so many poor options on practically every street corner. I have restricted myself to one or two sausage McMuffin with egg sandwiches from McDonalds each morning, and some variation of a balanced protein/carb, light meal in the evenings. I have not eaten lunch all week, and I have spent an average of $11 per day to eat.


"The best cab driver ever!"
One of the things I have noticed as a taxi cab customer is how often the cab driver does little more for the passenger than open the trunk to allow the passenger to put his or her own luggage in, drive the passenger to the destination, and collect the payment. In the training class the instructor emphasized the customer service aspect this company tries to push. I don't know if it's that emphasis, or if it's my experiences as the paying customer, but I have fully embraced the service aspect of this job. Granted, that may change when there's six inches of snow on the ground and 18 degrees on the thermometer, but we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.

I worked days my first week, with a brief taste of the action on Friday and Saturday nights. As the next weekend approached I decided to try working nights to see if it would be lucrative.

Within five minutes of firing up the computer and booking into the system Friday night at 10:00, I was running to pick up a fare to the airport. I didn't even get a chance to buy a cup of coffee! From the airport, on my way back to my designated work area, I received a fare in the zone through which I was passing: a pickup of two women at a motel. I arrived, went inside and asked the desk clerk to call their room and let them know their cab was there, and, when they came down, the cab was sitting at the lobby entrance with the rear doors open. I stood by the open door and closed it after they got in. They were two young women from Michigan in town to see Pink in concert the next night. But Friday night they wanted to go to a nightclub called Hunters, which I learned only a few days prior — from my cab driver trainer — is a gay bar. I asked the ladies why they wanted to go there, and one of them said, "Because there's nothing else to do in this crappy little town!"

At first I thought she meant Chicago, but before I opened my mouth I realized she meant that little suburb where they were staying. They were tired from driving all day, and they didn't want to go too far for some fun. The taller one seemed perhaps a little drunk, and she was flirting with me, saying that she thought bald heads were sexy. Then she said she thought guys with long, flowing hair were sexy, too. It then occurred to me that she was probably okay with most any guy as long as he had a head.

We arrived at Hunters, and suddenly the girls were nervous. Flirty girl (I think her name was Kimmy) asked me if I would come in with them...I could leave the meter running! I said, very politely, "Aw, HELL NO!" I gave them a business card with my name and mobile number handwritten on it, and told them they could call me if they wanted me, specifically, to drive them back, but I warned them that if I was busy, they might have to wait, or I might not be available at all. They went inside, and as I pulled away, I saw a transgendered man with butt implants out to HERE, huge boobs, puffy lips and wearing a short, red 'fuck me' dress heading toward the club entrance, and I thought out loud, "I'm SO glad I'm leaving!"

Twenty minutes later they called. By the sound of the woman's voice on the other phone, they were in WAY over their heads! Unfortunately, as I was leaving the parking lot at Hunters, I grabbed a fare that turned out to be a long ride from a comedy club at the local mega-mall to a hotel all the way down in the city!!

It was actually eight women in two cabs, and when the organizer of the group, and the caller of the cab company, saw me, she was thrilled that I was under the age of 60. Apparently their ride from their hotel to the suburbs had been helmed by an elderly limo (van) driver who had to stop along the way because he realized he was wearing the wrong glasses. These poor women had seriously feared for their lives. My four ladies were quite tickled by — and quite vocal about — the fact that I looked over my shoulder before changing lanes! $76 cab ride, $20 tip!

I was amazed at how busy I was Friday night. From 10:00 and the first ride, it was all pretty much non-stop until about 1:30 am. With about an hour afterward to try to catch a nap, I watched a fare sit open on the computer — another one in the far west zones — for at least 20 minutes, and no one grabbed it. Finally, and thinking it was some poor old lady trying to get home from work, I grabbed it only to discover it was a full-fare ride of about 15 miles! When I got the two young men and one young woman in the car, they pretty much ignored me for about 10 minutes until the young man snuggling with the young woman in the back seat suddenly spoke to me: "What's your name, brother?"

From there we engaged in light conversation about music, at which point I learned that the two men were in a rock band called Train Company. By the end of the ride I had learned that they had a CD out, they are enjoying some local celebrity with airplay on one of the Chicago progressive rock stations, and that if I would stick around for a couple minutes after I dropped them off, they would give me a free CD!

I haven't listened to it, yet.

Later in the morning I caught another airport ride. I grabbed it, and was a little too far away to make the scheduled pickup time. It was another fare that had sat on the computer too long. The woman was a little upset that I was five minutes late, and couldn't understand that, as she had made the call the night before. When I explained that the system calls the cab only about a half-hour before the pickup time, she calmed down a little. She was also impressed that I had gotten out of the cab and opened the door for her, and that I didn't drive like a maniac, and that I didn't smell like a week-old bath. She even said that, by the end of the ride, which she had started in a bad mood, she was in a good mood again!

The next evening my phone rang at 6:15, waking me from my fitful, daytime slumber. It was Kimmy and Krissy, the two Michigan girls, asking if I could come pick them up to take them to the concert. Of course I could!

After I picked them up, I told them the bad news that I wouldn't be able to pick them up after the concert because the village of Rosemont, where the concert venue is, has an exclusive contract with two taxicab companies, and mine isn't either of them. If I got caught picking them up, I could get a pretty hefty fine. I told them to just take one of the local, authorized taxis, and they should be just fine.

Around midnight I received another call from them. The taxi line was miles long, and could I please, PLEASE come pick them up? I asked them to walk away from the arena and the crowds and let me know where they were, and I would try to sneak around to get them. After a couple of more phone calls back and forth, I parked behind a hotel, out of sight of any of the Rosemont police officers on crowd- and traffic duty, and guided them to me.

They were very happy that I had worked so hard to get them into the cab and save them from waiting forever, and as we neared their hotel, one of them said that the next time they come to Chicago, they're calling me to be their cab driver! The other one said, "You're the best cab driver EVER!"

And I am.

Sunday night I didn't know what to expect. How much bar traffic could there be? Who was out that late on a Sunday night? Surprisingly, there was quite a bit early on, all short rides.

I received a fare that turned out to be at some bar in one of my home zones. As I arrived, the bar appeared to be closed, and I thought I had another no-show on my hands. I walked toward the doors, and they were locked. But seconds later a young man and a very attractive young woman came out and said that the other guy would be out in a few moments. That was fine with me, and as I headed toward the cab to wait, the young woman shouted, "You're the best-dressed cab driver I've ever seen!"

I turned back around, looked down at my khaki pants and my short-sleeve, button-front shirt — business casual at best — and said, "Thanks!"

She then proceeded to tell me of a worst-case scenario she had experienced in a cab, the driver of which had his small, pet dog with him that bit her and she was "bleeding all over the place." Then she said she would definitely want to ride in my cab! I was thinking that this could be a nice ride (wink, wink).

To my dismay, the other friend came out, and the two guys got in my cab, leaving the woman behind. Then I learned that the guy who had been with her and had been making out with her in the parking lot had only met her that evening. He was kicking himself and calling himself stupid because he felt he had neglected to say or do something for her. He asked me to turn around so he could go back to her, and I did. Back at the entrance, his friend talked him down, asking him, "Is it really going to make a difference?"

Tall boy got back in and said, "You're right."

And then I said, "You got her phone number, right?"

You would think I was Sherlock F. Holmes by their reaction!

And then I felt knees pressing against my kidneys through the seat foam at my back, so I slid my seat forward about an inch or two. Tall boy shouted, "Dude! This fuckin' guy is awesome!"

His friend shouted, "You're the best cab driver EVER!" I am not exaggerating. He said exactly the same thing Krissy had said a mere 24 hours earlier!

And then they both started quoting — I think — Wiseguys, and chanted, "This fucking guy! This fucking guy!"

Oh, yeah. They were both pretty drunk.

After that it quieted down for a couple of hours, during which I cat-napped. I caught a really short ride at 4:30, an old lady who needed to get to her dialysis appointment. When I left her at her destination, I got the first of three consecutive, $30-plus airport rides. cha-CHING!

I'm liking the night shift! And never have I worked ten 12-hour days in a row, and ENJOYED it! This is truly weird!



°

Life Is a (Taxi) Caberet

Times are tough. And when things get tough, the tough get going.

The rest of us take jobs as waiter or taxi driver...

I picked up my cab on Friday from a guy who owns a lot of cabs. Three million, I think. He's a big Russian guy — from Russia. People listen when he speaks, mainly because he has a great big foghorn of a voice that you can't help but listen to, as you cower in the corner protecting the glassware around you. I can't help but think "Russian mafia" when I see this guy, but I guess that's racist. We have a stereotype here for Italian mafia, what they look like, how they talk. I haven't a clue what cues Russian mob guys give out. All I know is that when I asked him, in the event of a missed weekly lease payment (mine) on the cab, if he broke fingers and toes as payment, he just smiled at me and chuckled.

So I drove around a bit on Friday, off-duty, getting a feel for the car, how it drives, how comfortable it is to me. I couldn't find the cigarette lighter outlet to save my life. I thought the car didn't have one. I even called Mario at the shop (where the big Russian guy told me to take the car for any problems). I pulled in and Mario's guy found it in two seconds, flat. See, the two-way radio is mounted to the underside of the ashtray door. I couldn't pull it down with any amount of reasonable pressure, and I didn't want to break my cab before even my first day on the job. But the really complicated trick, see, is that the ashtray pulls out, not down. I'm sure those Russian mechanics had a good smeyaatsa at my expense!

I decided to start slow. On Saturday I took care of some things for the car that I wanted to have at my disposal, like a center-console with cup holders. And then I hit the road.

The dispatch system is all computer controlled, so there's a terminal in my cab with buttons and a readout that I had to learn about in a class. I log in to the computer in the car, the central dispatch computer detects which zone I'm in by radio-GPS, and then sends information to me about how many other cabs are in my zone, how many cabs are in other zones, and any open fares where there are no other cabs.

I drove around through some of the zones in my area. In some of the zones are posts where cabs can sit and wait where there's a likelihood of people walking up and requesting a ride. I went to the huge shopping mall near me and waited for a little bit, but another cab from my company was already waiting there, so I left for another shopping center to the north.

Once there I sat for only a few minutes when my computer sent out its "you have a fare" tone, and I was on my way. My first job!! The address popped up on the computer, and I entered it into my personal GPS. They recommend that we use the GPS, but they also require us to have a 6-county atlas in the cab just in case the GPS can't find the address. Or Earth. I drove to the location, a corporate office park for Motorola.

And?

No one. I drove around that campus for 15 minutes looking for this person, and I couldn't even pique the interest of security...if there even was any. Finally, after contacting the dispatcher over the radio, and them telling me — repeatedly — that the person was at door 'D,' despite the fact that the only building at this Motorola campus that had lettered doors — from 'A' to 'S' — skipped 'B' and 'C', an Indian woman came bounding up a small hill — from another part of the office park that isn't Motorola — carrying what looked like lunch in a small plastic grocery bag. I apologized for being late (my first job!), and she politely told me where to go.

I mean, where she wanted me to take her. People tell cab drivers where to go all the time. HEY! My first cab-driver joke!

Since the train station where I took her isn't too far from where I picked her up, I returned to the office park to try to figure out where I went wrong. And I couldn't. At least, I don't think it was my mistake. The message from dispatch read "Motorola Main Entrance." I think the passenger must have referred to the main entrance as a landmark, as where she was is a smaller office complex closer to the road. And none of those buildings had a door 'D', whether apparent or obvious.

When I was doing my training/orientation with a seasoned driver (the guy was covered in salt, pepper and oregano. It was really annoying...and made me hungry), every time we approached a post at a particular Marriott hotel not too far from the big shopping mall, he would get a fare call. Nothing was happening in the zone I went to at another, smaller hotel, so I headed toward the Marriott of mention.

While I was still about ten minutes away, I got another call for a fare! This time it was a strange, funny woman I picked up at a grocery store who then wanted me to wait while she ran back inside to try to find her boyfriend's sunglasses she had accidentally left in a shopping cart.

After I dropped her off I again headed for the Marriott when I noticed an open fare in a zone that was really too far for me to chase. However, the fare had been open for at least fifteen minutes. So I "conditionally booked" it, which basically tells the dispatcher human that I'll accept the fare if he/she feels we can afford the customer waiting that much longer. He/she gave it to me, and I shot out about 20 miles west and a good bit south to pick up two fares at some sort of community college. I had done something wrong with the computer, and the dispatcher human called me to help me understand what to do next time and, oh! Hey! you have another fare in that same zone!

So I ran and picked up an apparently developmentally challenged man from his job at a grocery store.

On my way back to my "home" zones, I saw two open fares way south of where I had taken those three in the west. I figured that it wasn't worth my while, and someone would take them. Then the message came over the computer: "Zone 337, please help, anyone" which is a call to the drivers to think of the people, not the money. By that time I was already back in my home zone, but I "C-Booked" anyway, figuring the dispatcher would think me too far away. Nope. Booked.

Back all the way as far west as I had gone, and another twenty miles south, if not farther. Two different pickups, two women who, for whatever reasons, can't drive. They both seemed of sound body, so I assumed DUI. The dispatcher had told me earlier how to properly book two separate, simultaneous fares, but I think I did it wrong, anyway. And then I was definitely headed back to my home zone. I had been out on the road eight hours already, I was hungry, and I wanted to sit out at the airport for a while and maybe pick up a $30-40 fare.

Nope. Another fare in one of the far west zones, but this time only ten minutes away from where I was, to the north. I forgot to start the meter when they got in, so after the very short ride I estimated five dollars. The guy gave me eight, said thanks, and he and his wife left my cab. Since it was a short ride, I started the meter at the hotel where I dropped them and returned to the restaurant where I had picked them up. The fare came out to $6.40, so I undercharged him $1.40, but he gave me eight dollars. I was still ahead, and I hadn't overcharged him.

Okay, NOW back to the home zones, and I was STARVING!

I saw a Steak N Shake along the way and so I decided to stop there for a bite. I love their chili, so that was what I would have. However, as I tried to log out of the computer (if I don't log out when I'll be away from the car, and they send me a fare to which I don't respond, I will be suspended for 24 hours), it started having communications errors. The driver manager I tried to call wasn't answering his phone, so I decided to move to another location to try again. Nowhere around that damn Steak N Shake could I get a signal! So, about a mile and a half down the road my computer finally re-established communication, and I was still starving.

I got to the airport cab lot behind seven other cabs. The line hadn't moved, as I had observed on the computer, so I knew it was slow. By 10:00 at night on a Saturday (I had wanted to be there two hours earlier) I knew it would be. I sat there for about 20 minutes and my position in the queue hadn't changed, so I left and headed for my home zones again.

As a cab moves through all the zones, the central computer is constantly tracking it, and if that cab happens to be the only one in a particular zone when a fare in or near that zone comes up, the computer matches them and sends the cab the fare offer. A driver must accept the offer or be suspended!! So, not quite to my zones, and hoping to take some grateful drunk people home from some bars, my computer chirped to life... just as I entered a strip of road through a forest preserve with few places to turn off or turn around. About a mile down the road I was finally able to turn off and park.

I loaded the address info into my GPS and turned around. In the driveway of the pickup address I saw one very large, very drunk man in a Hawaiian shirt come weaving down toward me. He apologized(?) and asked if I could wait about five minutes. Hey, it's what I do.

A few minutes later a very drunk woman came staggering down the driveway and got in the car, followed by a plump girl of about 15. The big guy squeezed himself into the back seat with his wife and his daughter and gave me the address, saying the entire time that he would "take care of me" when I got them home.

I reached up to the meter, pressed the "extras" button — as there were two extras — and suddenly the readout on the meter showed a four-digit number!! I thought I had perhaps forgotten to shut it off, and now it was showing some outrageous amount, but then it flashed, and the numbers changed. I couldn't get the meter to show me its normal display, and in the meantime, while I fidgeted with it, a very large, very drunk man and his somewhat trim, very drunk wife were slowly asphyxiating their daughter wedged between them in the back seat of my cab.

Unsure of what to do, I called dispatch on the radio. They measured the distance to the destination address, estimated $13.00, and sent me on my way.

At their home, the big guy took care of me with a $20 bill. A 54% tip is nothing to sneeze at. I just wish I had taken them to the north suburbs instead of one town over.

It wasn't yet midnight. I had started around noon, and I wanted to put in 12 hours, so I though it was a good time to eat. I could park the cab, shut everything down, and maybe the meter would reset, or something. I knew there was a Steak N Shake on the way back to my zones, and I had been dreaming of their chili for the last three hours, so I headed there.

They were out of chili.

Thirty minutes and two BLTs later I was back in the car, learning that my night was over, because the meter was still phukked. When I got home I had $54 in my pocket that hadn't been there when I left, $10 shy of what I had pocketed since I paid for my dinner from the pile. There's another $80-100 coming to me for all the far west rides that I chased, as they were mass transit subsidized, and though each person paid me only three dollars, PACE transit will pay the difference to the cab company, who will pay me the full amount for the fares.

Maybe I don't know any better, but I say it's not bad for a Saturday.

Now to see what Sundays are like.



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